Phantasy and Flame
by Epona
Summary: REVISED (April '02). During his journey through the swamp with Sam and Gollum, Frodo falls ill. Minor slash (Sam/Frodo).


DISCLAIMER: As you may have surmised, I did not write The Lord of the Rings, nor did I dream up Sam, Frodo or Gollum.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I've just touched it up a little (April '02). Minor stuff. Added a paragraph or two.

* * *

...I have thought  
Too long and darkly, till my brain became,  
In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought,  
A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame...

-Lord Byron, "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage"

I'm up to my knees in frigid swamp water, splashing south, always south, just a few clumsy strides behind you. I am gazing distractedly downward, trying to pick a path through the murk, but my real attention is focussed on you, my hands and my ears and my breath seeking you out in the darkness.

We've been travelling too long with Gollum; I miss the sun.

When I decided to follow you down your dark path, Frodo, it never occurred to me that the darkness would be so literal. I knew there would be sacrifices: a warm bed, yes; the dear old Gaffer, yes; food, oh, yes - I had thought food would be the hardest thing to do without. But living without sunlight is a strange cruelty, and one I never foresaw. It is easy to imagine that this swamp exists in perpetual darkness, that a manic moon swings through this sky night and day, circling above us with lunatic jealousy.

But I don't mean to complain, Mr. Frodo. I'd set up camp in this horrid swamp and live here the rest of my days if it would put the spring back in your step, or the roses back in your cheeks, or if it would remind you how to smile. It's true, these last few days I've only seen you in moonlight; but I don't think I'm imagining that you're growing paler all the time.

I sense a sudden stillness, and glance up immediately, and stop short to keep from running into you from behind. Your grey-cloaked back is hard to spot, even though I'm probably close enough to reach out and touch it.

"Mr. Frodo?" You don't respond, and I have to fight down panic as I explore the air before me with my hands. My fingers find your soft cloak and I smooth my hands out to your shoulders, down your arms. You're shaking, and I don't know why.

I circle around you, reassured by the splashing sounds my feet make; this silence is unnerving. "Frodo?" I can just make out your face, drawn and pale in the moonlight: your eyes are shut tight, brow furrowed as though you were in pain. One of your hands is clenched around the Ring, a white mass of knuckles. I reach down for the other, and finding it icy, enfold it in both of mine.

Then your eyes crack open, lids raising slowly. The moon glints off your eyes, bright and strange. You peer at me in sleepy confusion, and I think I see your lips form my name, but before I can answer, your eyes slide shut and you sway drunkenly to one side. Instinctively, my arms slip around you, and I catch you before you can collapse into the bog.

My poor Frodo - it's all been too much for you. You've been fading, these last few days, but I didn't realize how much of yourself you had spent. Now all I want is to tuck you away somewhere warm and safe, but I doubt if I will be able to find either of those conditions here.

I remember the creature slinking through the nighttime waters up ahead of us, our dubious guide, and I am tempted to keep quiet and let him go, to try to lose him in the swamp, now, when you are so vulnerable and he so shady. But that is not what you would want, and much as I hate to admit it, I may need his help to make you well again.

"Gollum," I call into the night. Moments later, I hear a faint sound like fish jumping, and then two luminous eyes appear before me, a little too close by. Briefly, I regret my decision; but it cannot be helped.

"We need dry land, somewhere to rest. Take us to the closest place." I try to look both casual and forbidding, but this is hard to accomplish with your semi-conscious form trembling in my arms.

"Too soon for resst," he hisses, eyeing you in a way that makes me want to break his head in two with my frying pan. "Yellow Face still a long way off, isn't it, precious? Yesss.…"

He's right; it's not even the middle of the night yet. But we have no choice. "I'm not interested in your opinion," I shoot back. "Take us somewhere dry, where Master can lie down. He's very tired." I shift your weight in my arms and you moan faintly.

He shrinks back at my harsh tone. "Nassty hobbits," he mutters. "Poor Sméagol helps them all through nasty swampses, then hobbits is cruel, they is. But this one.…" His eyes alight on you again, and he sniffs at the air. "This one is sick, Master ssick; cannot carry you, can he, precious? But Sméagol, yess, Sméagol can carry precious; Sméagol will carry the Precious and be good as fish."

"NO!" I hate that he is here to witness your misery, your helplessness, the fragility of your body. I hate that your sickness is his advantage, his opportunity. "Under no circumstances are you to touch that ring! Now lead us to the nearest bit of dry land this instant, you little stinker, or I'll box your ears!"

He darts back, away from me, and I see his eyes glitter with something between hatred and respect. But he has started moving, he is wading in a new direction, and I can only hope he is leading us toward safety.

* * * * * * * * *

I haul myself up out of the cold marsh and onto the grassy island Gollum pointed out before slinking off who-knows-where. It is small, no more than a few paces across, and bordered by thin, twisted trees growing naked out of the swamp.

I lay you down carefully on the prickly grass. Your legs and feet have dried, but you are still shivering, so I set about making a nest for you, from the blankets in my pack. You groan as I lift you into it, bundling you against the chills that rack your frail body. It's still too dark to see you properly, but I brush the damp curls from your face and find that you are, in fact, quite warm.

Disconcerted, I offer you water from the skin and encourage you to drink, but you will take only a few drops, shuddering with their frigidity. You refuse food altogether. Everything is damp here, and I cannot build you a fire. All I can give you is the comfort of my body close to yours, and so I lie down next to you, stretching out behind your huddled form and shaping my body around yours. You press back into my soft stomach and I drape an arm across you, nest and all.

It's only the middle of our day, but the road has been difficult lately, and I am weary. I can already feel myself slipping toward sleep. Your shallow breathing and the buzzing of insects weave together into a wordless lullaby. No harm can come to you wrapped in my arms; I close my eyes and let the world fade away.

* * * * * * * * *

When I wake, hours later, I can feel the slim shape of your body still tucked close against me, but now you are shaking harder than ever; I can feel it through the blankets. You are sighing and whimpering and shifting in your sleep. I pull you tighter against me, murmuring soothing words in your ear.

With a violent twitch, you jerk awake, pushing yourself to a sitting position even before you're fully conscious. I put a hand on your shoulder to calm you, but you flinch, groaning, and spin around clumsily, watching me with wild eyes. Your right hand is pressed against your left shoulder, clutching at it as though you would like to wring the pain out of it; your chest is heaving. In this moment you are not my master, but a creature of the night, aching and afraid.

Afraid of _me_. Oh, Frodo; tell me what to do.

"Bad dream?" I ask, fighting to steady my voice. I can't tell whether you recognize me, and that cuts deep. "It's only your Sam," I soothe. "You're right sick, sir; I think you ought to lie back down." You continue to eye me uncertainly, still holding your shoulder, still quaking. I lean forward, a slow, fluid motion, and touch your face, wanting nothing more than to reassure you. Your cheek is slick with sweat, and hot to the touch. I wince, but you seem comforted by my hand, and lean into it, half-closing your eyes and loosening your grip on your damaged arm. I smooth the hair back from your forehead and kiss the burning skin, wishing my lips were enough to protect you against all your trials, and you relax still further, your shivers beginning to subside. And here I am, your face mere inches from mine, and you're beautiful and tragic in the moonlight, and without thinking I lean in and kiss your hot, papery lips.

When I pull back, scant seconds later, my heart is racing - what if I have offended you? - but you only sigh contentedly. Your eyes have fallen shut once more, and you are sitting still, the trembling gone, the pain in your shoulder faded low. But so are you, you're fading fast, and now you comply freely as I help you back into the blankets and lay you down once more. This time I'm afraid to lie down with you, not because of the kiss, but because your fever is so high, and because I don't know what to make of the reawakening of your Morgul wound. I'm scared for you: I need to watch over you, in case something should happen. So I sit close to you, my hand playing idly in your warm curls, listening to your breaths as they lengthen, smooth out, and carry you into sleep.

* * * * * * * * *

I've only felt this helpless a handful of times in my life.

I can think of four different herbs, any one of which might make you feel better, and all of which grow in the garden at Bag End. When I close my eyes, I can see each plant, nestled in its place amid the flowers and vegetables, and the images are so clear that I feel I could almost reach out and pluck them from the earth. Just once, I catch myself trying.

But imagined herbs won't do you an ounce of good, and instead I'm pressing a handful of chilly, swamp-soaked moss to your forehead, and debating whether to try to find Gollum so I can send on an herb-scouting mission.

The last few hours have been awful; you've been twisting and cringing in your sleep, and murmuring dark words I can't understand. The fever has a terrible hold on you, but I'm worried something else has slipped in with it: in the last hour, you haven't once let go of the Ring. Through all the sweating and shuddering, it's been locked tight in a double-fist, and every time you cry out, your grip tightens so that I would swear your knuckles are about to burst through your skin.

What is it telling you, Frodo? What black things has it been whispering into your tormented mind? Listen to me, instead. Listen to the lullaby I'm singing you, to the buzzing insects, to anything but the Ring.

The dawn is not far off now, and the sky is already beginning to lighten. I am desperate for the sun to rise. Thoughts can't help but turn dark when they have no light to feed them; maybe the clear light of day will burn away our shadows.

We're almost out of clean water, but the way you've been sweating I know you need more. I rest a hand on your arm and speak your name, trying to wake you as gently as possible. You grunt and shrug out of my touch, rolling away from me, both hands still on your prize - but when it comes to stubbornness, you're no match for a Gamgee. I grip your unhurt arm, lightly but firmly, and give it a bit of a shake. "Time for a nice drink of water," I announce in my most cheerful voice.

With lightning quickness, you reach up and scratch my hand. I draw back, startled, my heart pounding. For a moment all I can do is sit here, staring dumbly at my hand. It stings. Then suddenly you're on your feet, and your eyes are boring into me with animal intensity, and all I see in them is a void, a terrible void.

"Easy," I say, trying to sound as calm as possible, and start climbing to my feet, but you hiss as I rise, and I think I hear the word "precious" leave your lips. You're holding the Ring high above your head, clutching it in a death-grip, watching me hungrily, like a jackal guarding its kill.

"I don't want the Ring," I blurt out, hoping against hope that you're not too far gone to recognize the truth when you hear it. "It's yours."

You stand still, panting with effort, considering my words. Then a hideous grin contorts your face. "Mine," you snarl, lowering the Ring to eye level and opening your hand to gaze upon its terrible beauty. It shimmers; the sky is light now, the sun aching to break through the horizon.

But now you're doing something I hadn't expected, something terrifying. You're stroking the Ring lovingly, greedily, and one of your fingers is slipping along the inner edge of that golden band, ecstasy flitting across your altered face. You are about to put it on. And if you do that, you'll disappear, and then I'll never be able to save you from yourself.

I lunge at you - I'm sorry, but it's the only way. You shriek and snap your fist shut around the Ring, your other hand lashing out at me, all claws. You're scratching my face, ripping at my clothes, my hair. I'm fumbling for your closed fist, straining to capture it and extract the Ring, but you're possessed of an unearthly strength.

Suddenly I feel your teeth close around my ear, and I scream as they sink in. I bat at your head, but even now I'm afraid of hitting you too hard, afraid of the damage I could inflict if I really fought back. I pull desperately at your hair, hoping it will hurt enough to make you let me go, but all I get is a snort, hot in my bleeding ear. Then you release me, simultaneously shoving me backward so that I stumble and fall. You step forward, towering over me, dark against the pale orange sky, my blood dripping from your mouth, the Ring still clutched in your hand, and it's wrong, it's all wrong.

You drop to your knees, landing hard on my belly, and it occurs to me that you're about to kill me, and that I'm not going to stop you. But all of a sudden your weight is ripped from my body; a dark shape is holding you back, pinning your arms to your sides - it's Gollum! He must have heard our cries - now his slender arms are wound tight around you, and you're writhing in his grip, shrieking in frustration. Dimly, I recognize this as the moment where I should get up and reclaim you; but somehow I'm still flat on my back.

All I can see of Gollum are his arms, dark around your body, and his legs planted firm behind yours. You're twisting and kicking, but I can see your supernatural strength starting to ebb, hear your cries growing more plaintive, more pitiful. And now the sun is peeking its head up in the east, yellow and whole, and it's setting the sky on fire, and you stop struggling, your energy spent, your body sagging, tears flowing down your face like pus from an infected wound, exposed at last. Gollum's arms are still tight around you, but now you're gasping, sobbing like your heart has been ripped out, your limbs weak, your knees buckling, drooping toward the earth. And I recognize you again, my beloved master, sick and devastated; but through a bizarre twist of fate, it is not me, but Gollum, who is holding you as you cry.

I rise numbly from the ground, ignoring the pain in my ear, ignoring the blood flowing down my neck, and I prise open your fist and take the Ring, tucking it into one of my inner pockets for temporary safe-keeping. Then I pry Gollum's pliant arms off you, taking your body from his grasp, and you wilt against me, sobbing and exhausted, and I sit down, my back against the trees, and cradle you in my arms. I look up and my eyes meet Gollum's, squinting at me in the first scalding rays of sunlight, and in that moment I hate him for doing what I could not: saving you. And saving me.

It will not occur to me until some days later to wonder why he did not take the Ring from you during your delirium. For now, I am spent, and sit awash in relief that you are yourself again, that the danger has passed, that you're safe in my arms. Tears are coursing down your cheeks, sweat is streaming from your skin - salt waters washing over you, drenching you. Purging you. The sun will burn it all away, burn you clean, any minute now. You'll see.


End file.
